


feels good to be alive

by GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor is an escort and not involved in revolution, Crime Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 08:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17321132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes/pseuds/GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes
Summary: Hank doesn’t have time for this. He’s got nearly a dozen open cases on his hands; he doesn’t have time for slowly falling for a pretty boy twink android who works at some seedy strip club in the rough side of town.He just wants to close a case for once. Except it seems like the cases popping up these days lead back to that android who’s too smart for his own good and doesn’t belong in the life he lives in.





	1. dim red lights

**Author's Note:**

> All the best ideas come while standing in the middle of a Walgreens, looking at shampoo bottles. Absolutely all the best ideas. I even had another hankcon fic started, but this seemed more interesting.  
> I guess I'll also warn ya'll that my update schedule will probably be messy. I'm on my last semester of high school and I work part time, but hopefully I can update somewhat frequently :D I'll try my best because the love I got on my first D:BH fic was incredible!!

The TV lights up the living room. The volume is turned low enough to be just background noise. It’s snowing outside, like it has been for nearly every day for the past few weeks. That’s just Detroit Januaries though.

Hank takes a long drink of his beer. The near-room temperature bottle is loose in his hand. He’s not even feeling buzzed yet. The alcoholic kick from beer has long since worn off. It’ll take something harder if he wants to get drunk tonight.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t though.

Just something to take the edge off.

Cases at work have been piling up. In the following months after the android revolution, one of the plethora of laws that have passed for android rights is to criminalize all crimes done by or against androids. There had already been enough human cases for them to deal with, but now the Detroit Police Department is buzzing day in and day out with cases.

The _incoming_ stack of cases on the corner of Hank’s desk seems to grow daily.

He takes another drink of beer. On the couch next to him, Sumo makes a sleepy noise. The dog’s only half awake, getting lulled asleep by the TV. To be fair, Hank is too. Life was getting rougher, if that was even possible.

And as if on cue, his phone rings from the coffee table.

Blearily, Hank looks at the clock. It’s only eight at night. His shift had ended a few hours ago, and even though he knew there was always the possibility of being called in, he hoped he’d have the night to himself.

Life thought otherwise.

He sits up. He leans forward, setting the almost empty bottle on the coffee table before picking up his phone.

> _Capt Fowler is Calling_

He groans, knowing that he can’t ignore the call. He picks up, wedging the phone between his cheek and shoulder.

“Anderson,” he grumbles, picking the bottle back up and reclining back on the couch. At the sound of Hank’s voice, Sumo perks up for a second. The two make eye contact, and the dog lays his head back down.

“Hey Hank,” Fowler greets. “Something just came up. It’s another android case.”

Hank opens his mouth, about to make a noise of dissatisfaction.

Fowler cuts him off before he can. “I know you have a lot of open cases, but you’re the only open one to take this.”

Hank rolls his eyes, taking a huge gulp as his captain talks.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “What is it?”

“A 34 year old male named Jona Campbell died at some android escort-slash-strip club. Place is called _Scarlett’s._ The guy was found dead in the bathroom. They did some basic exam there and he was most likely strangled to death. There’s some trauma to the back of the skull though.”

Hank huffs. “Is this urgent?”

“Yes,” Fowler’s voice leaves little room for argument. “Chris is already there, but you need to go help him. He called and told me it’s unlikely an android is involved, but it’s still hard to tell.”

Hank downs the last of his drink. He sets the bottle on the coffee table with a little too much force. It clatters, and Sumo jolts next to him. He feels bad, and scratches Sumo’s back for a few seconds before standing.

“I’m on my way,” he says.

“Good,” Fowler says, then hangs up.

 _Never the guy for pleasantries._ Hank thinks with a quiet snort. Sumo’s big eyes follow him as he crosses in front of the couch. He leaves the TV on, knowing Sumo likes the noise.He hopes he won’t be too long.  

Still buzzed, he shoves his feet in his shoes and reaches for his coat from the coat rack.

 

There were a few cop cars parked out in front of the place.

Hank throws his old car in park, stepping out as the engine sputters to a stop. Yesterday’s snowfall crunches under his heavy boots as he crosses the sidewalk to the front door of the place.

 _Scarlett’s_ is tucked in between two taller buildings, sat in the sketchy side of town. The windows up front are covered in something dark, completely hiding the contents inside. Hank grumbles to himself, pushing open the old wooden door to the place.

It swings shut behind him  with a loud creak as he takes a sweeping look of the place.

It looks (and smells) like your typical club.

Darkly lit of course. The carpet’s dark red and in bad shape. Some lights are tinted red, adding to the grimy atmosphere and covering up potential code violations. Some other lights are trained on a stage that sits at the back of the club. Unsurprisingly, there’s a tall silver pole in the middle of it, and its background is a dingy red velvet curtain that must’ve lost its luster two decades ago. 

All Hank can think about as his eyes take the place in is that this place reminds him of Eden Club… except about ten, maybe twenty, times sketchier. An android escort and strip club? Definitely shady.

But he keeps his opinion to himself, continuing to look around.

The room is longer than it is wide. Worn booths and creaky tables of various sizes pointed towards the stage. The place slowly slopes towards that stage-- a step down every few feet. Off to the right side of the club is a bar. A few people are lingering around; a few beat cops and a few workers.

Some of the workers are human; some are android.

The humans are more dressed, while the androids are practically in just underwear. Their LED circles on their temples are blue, along with the thin collar wrapped tight around their necks.

Hank assumes the usual ‘android’ indicators of blue triangles and armbands don’t mesh well with their skimpy attire.

“Anderson!” It’s Officer Chris, standing up by the stage.

Hank grunts in greeting, crossing the place to meet his coworker.

“So why are we here if no android was involved?” He asks, looking around once more with wariness.

He’s not loving the vibe this place has. He glances down at the carpet, eyes catching a few suspicious stains. This place has seen way better days.

“Victim was strangled in the bathroom,” Chris says. “Sounds like no android was involved though. The guy, Jona Campbell, was on his way back from one of the back rooms when he stopped by the bathroom. Next thing you know he’s dead.”

Hank grumbles, crossing his arms in front of him. “Was he in the backroom with somebody?”

Chris nods, gesturing to a figure sitting on the edge of the stage a little ways away from them. It’s got a shimmering blue collar on; an _android._

Hank holds in a sigh. “So besides the killer, that is probably the last person who saw him.”

Chris nods again. “We’re waiting on a warrant to look through the security footage here. Once we get that, we can see if anybody else was around Campbell.”

Chris pauses for a second, leaning in close. “But I bet the security system here is so old all we’re gonna see is static.”

He’s probably not wrong, much to Hank’s dismay. He’d love it if this case was open-and-shut. _Scarlett’s_ is uncomfortable, almost suffocating to be in. Hank distantly wonders what it would feel like if this place was full.

“Great,” Hank says. Chris purses his lips in a flat line for a second, knowing this situation could be much better. Looks like they’ll do what they can though. If the trail runs cold, maybe it was just supposed to be that way.

“Nobody’s talked to the witness, maybe do that before poking around the bathroom,” Chris suggests.

Hank shrugs, almost despondent. He’d rather not be here, so he might as well get the questioning over with.

Chris stands by him for a few seconds, then claps a hand on Hank’s shoulder. Hank glances at him, but Chris is already walking away to do something else.

Hank’s eyes trail over to the witness then.

He’s a little surprised with what he sees; he had barely given the android a glance when Chris mentioned it. But the android is an impressive model, admittedly, now that he looks at it.

The android sits on the side of the stage, long and nearly hairless legs over the side and his palms resting on the edge. Pale, slender fingers curl over the lip of the stage. Sharp brown eyes are locked on the aging floor. A cowlick falls over his left eyebrow, yet other than that his hair is perfectly smoothed back. Large freckles too (which Hank knows were purposefully placed there) dot the android’s youthful face.

Hank swallows thickly. He has a certain distaste towards androids, but even he has to admit that this one’s got a boyish charm.

Slender build, no doubt tall, and a curve to his jaw and nose that make him look young. Almost illegally young.

 _Definitely the twink type_.

Hank clears his throat-- not for the android’s attention but for himself. He can’t be distracted by an android, especially some kind of _sex bot_ that’s wearing nothing but slim black boxer briefs, that glimmering blue collar, and a close cut white button up that’s half undone.

Belatedly, Hank realizes that some kind of body glitter is spread across his chest. The fine sparkles pool in the dips of his collarbones, glimmering rainbows under the stage lights.

Hank doesn’t know how to feel. He walks up to the android, swallowing his thoughts.

The android must hear his footsteps, his eyes flick up from the floor and meet Hank’s.

At that, the android sits up, the curve of his back straightening and his hands folding in his lap. Now that he’s sitting up straight, they’re almost eye level. And, the light from the stage has changed. Shadows gather in the dips in the android’s face, making him look leaner.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Hank greets. He doesn’t hold out his hand, but the android doesn’t either.

“Connor Stern,” the android introduces himself. The LED circle on his right temple cycles blue twice, then goes back to a solid blue. The android cracks a smile, purposefully a little lopsided to be more human.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up on my [writing tumblr](http://geoffseightgreatestmistakes.tumblr.com/) or even my [personal tumblr](http://bleepbloopbee.tumblr.com/) if ya'll wanna talk about detroit or hankcon!!!<3<3
> 
> fic title comes from 'feels good to be high' by walk the moon.


	2. a stray tie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was shooting the shit when writing when i had a major breakthrough about the plot line of this fic. i'm not very good at outlining things but i have lots of ideas!!!!
> 
> the shitty part though is that my main laptop suddenly decided to fail on me and my backup isn't the best for writing... so that's kind of shitty but oh well. i hope ya'll like this anyway because i'm going to have so much fun writing this <3<3
> 
> and if you need some content warnings for this chapter please look at the end note!!

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Hank greets. He doesn’t hold out his hand, but the android doesn’t either. 

“Connor Stern,” the android introduces himself. The LED circle on his right temple cycles blue twice, then goes back to a solid blue. The android cracks a smile, purposefully a little lopsided to be more human. 

Hank nods a little, acknowledging the android’s name. Connor’s smile fades after a second, and the android looks more serious now. 

“You met with Jona Campbell earlier this evening, current?” Hank starts the questioning immediately. He’s not really one for pleasantries in the first place, but with an android he feels even less of the need. 

The LED cycles blue once more, and Connor nods. 

“Yes, Mr. Campbell has been coming to see me a lot.”

His voice is nice. Something warm and confident about it. Maybe it’s apart of Connor’s programming; he needs to sound that confident for his…  _ customers.  _

“Does he come in regularly?” Hank asks, reaching into his jacket pocket for something to write on. Fortunately, he had a small notebook shoved in there from the last time he had questioned somebody. 

Connor watches Hank’s hands dig around in his jacket pockets, thinking something over.

“Every two or three days.” Connor says after a few seconds. “Only asks for me.”

Hank raises an eyebrow, flipping to a blank page and jotting that down in his messy handwriting. 

“Anything off about Campbell?” Hank asks. 

Connor’s LED cycles blue again. 

“Do you mean if Mr. Campbell was on drugs or intoxicated?” Connor’s head tilts to the side, just a little. It reminds Hank of a confused puppy. It’s a little cute, but Hank pushes the thought back. 

Now is not really the time to divulge in Connor’s (mostly sexual) appeal. 

“Yes,” Hank nods.

“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t typically run vitals scans on my clients,” Connor says. 

Now Hank did not expect that as an answer. 

Were sex androids fitted with the type of tech to  _ do  _ vital scans? He had assumed it was essentially a sex-driven personality shoved into a mechanic body with sex organs. Sure, vitals might be useful… but wouldn’t that be an invasion of privacy for the customer? This place didn’t run like the Eden Club, where androids’ memories were wiped frequently. 

Connor can remember that far back, so collecting vital signs would mean collecting data against their customers. 

Hank doesn’t feel easy about that. Sure, he doesn’t like the Eden Club either, but at least their security is pretty top notch. 

But Connor’s words pull Hank from his thoughts. 

“Mr. Campbell always had a drink on him when here, but I don’t believe he was anything more than… what do you say…” Connor trails off. For the first time, he looks away from Hank’s face. He looks at the floor for a second, then realizes what he wants to say. “Buzzed.” 

His brown eyes meet Hank’s again. Hank’s a little off put by his unwavering gaze. 

Hank looks away, feeling uneasy. 

“How many times has he been to see you?” Hank asks, deciding to keep moving forward. 

The question of  _ what do you two do together  _ almost rolled off his tongue without him realizing. He caught himself-- knowing that it would be inappropriate. Yet if Connor had answered, Hank knew that he most definitely didn’t want to know the answer. 

“15 times,” Connor says without missing a beat. “Over the course of the past two months. It used to be weekly, but it’s become more frequent lately.”

Hank writes that down. 

_ 15 times.  _

Jesus, Jona Campbell absolutely had a type. And money too-- if he had to pay for each time he saw Connor. 

“It’s an hour at a time,” Connor continues in an impassive tone. “Mr. Campbell pays for the hour, and when it’s over he leaves.”

“Does he stick around? Watch who’s performing?” Hank asks. 

Connor shakes his head. “Only here for me.”

Hank presses his lips into a flat line. It sounds suspicious that Campbell only came to see one android then left. It almost sounds as if Connor was involved…

“So earlier this evening, when you… finished… with Campbell, what happened?” Hank stumbles over his words in the middle, sure of how else to word it.

Connor doesn’t seem to be affected by it. His LED stays a solid blue. 

“I walked him back to the front. I saw him go into the restroom, and I went back to the bar,” Connor’s eyes flick over to the bar. 

Hank’s does too. There’s nothing special over there. Officer Chris is chatting to the bartender, but it seems more casual than for business. 

“When was this?” Hank asks. 

“7:18.” Connor says. “Right when he went into the bathroom.”

Hank scribbles that down. 

“Did you see anybody go in after him?”

Connor shakes his head. “My back was to the bathroom.”

Hank slowly nods. He’s not necessarily surprised by that answer. Just from this short discussion, Connor seems to be a straight-to-the-point person. The second his time with Campbell was up it seemed logical he would move on. 

“Did he ever share anything personal details with you?” Hank asks. “Like anything about his family, job, or life?”

Connor’s LED cycles blue as he stays quiet. His eyes go distant for a split second; he must be recalling all of his time with Campbell. 

“Mr. Campbell was a private person with me. I only know his sexual desires.”

Connor’s words make Hank’s stomach tighten for a second. For a bitter second, he remembers that Connor had met with their victim earlier this evening. That meant he probably had to check out the room the two were in. 

“Is there anything else Lieutenant?” Connor asks, blinking slowly. He seems to detect Hank’s reluctance to continue. Maybe the android is more attentive than he appears. 

“One last thing,” Hank flips the notebook shut and shoves it back in his jacket pocket. Connor’s eyes flick down once more when his hands start moving. Then land right back at Hank’s eyes, the two sharing another (vaguely uncomfortable) gaze. 

“Can you show me the room you two used earlier this evening?” 

Connor nods, slipping off the edge of the stage. His feet land softly against the worn carpet, barely making a noise. Distantly, Hank wonders how much the android weighs. The thought quickly fades as Connor leads Hank around the side of the stage, and up a few steps. 

Off to the left of the stage is a small archway, covered by an equally old curtain as the one on the stage. Connor draws it aside, letting Hank step through first. 

On the other side is a dimly lit hallway about twenty five feet long. Doors are evenly spaced down the hall, four on each side and one final one at the end. Connor steps past Hank’s right, leading him down to the second door on the left. 

He presses his palm against a small panel above the door’s handle, and there’s a small click. Then Connor pushes open the door, gesturing for Hank to enter. 

“How much is this for an hour?” Hank asks, stepping into the room.

Connor leaves the door open, hovering in the doorframe. 

Hank scans the room. It’s small, maybe only eight by ten feet. Dimly lit, of course. It’s as if bright lights don’t exist in this club. But there’s a queen bed tucked against the back wall, with a small couch and armchair off to the side. And of course, another pole, in the center of the room.

“Depends on what you ask for,” Connor says. His tone is still impassive. 

Hank glances at the android out of the corner of his eye. It’s unsettling for Connor’s voice to be so flat while simultaneously talking about murder and sex work. But Connor stands in the doorway, arms by his sides. The dim lighting still manages to catch on the glitter settled in the dips of his collarbones. 

“What does Campbell pay?” He says-- choosing to ask for amount instead of what Campbell had asked for. 

“300 an hour,” Connor says so simply it’d make Hank choke on his drink if he had one. He sputters a little, turning to face the android. 

“I’d ask what you two do but I don’t want to know,” Hank says, exasperated. 

A corner of Connor’s mouth quirks upward, amused. “I wouldn’t tell you anyway. Customer confidentiality.”

That’s a relief.

He hopes he doesn’t need that information… but if he does, it’ll probably come after being served a warrant.

Hank turns his attention back to the room. He scans the bed, noticing that the sheets are messed up and kicked to the foot of the bed. There’s a tie sprawled across the arm of the couch, and just as he notices it, Connor seems to as well.

“Oh,” the android whispers, stepping into the room and reaching for the black tie. 

“Don’t,” Hank warns. Connor’s hand shoots back as if he’d been burned. His LED flickers yellow, and he steps back with a kicked-puppy look on his face. Hank lets out a long breath, and turns away from Connor. 

Nothing else is in the room seems out of place. No stray pieces of clothing besides the tie. No furniture moved out of place. The sheets only need to be remade, but Hank would like forensics to sweep the place for DNA. There’s probably some nasty shit on those sheets though.

He knows it’s unlikely Connor is involved, but his discarded tie looks suspicious in a strangulation case. 

Hank turns back towards the door, meeting Connor’s eye. Connor is leaning against the doorframe now, still looking fairly casual despite the situation at hand. 

“Did you always use this room with Campbell?” Hank asks. The answer probably won’t be relevant to the case, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. 

Connor shakes his head. 

“Whatever room was available is used.”

Hank nods a little, and comes back over to the door. Connor seems to understand he’s leaving, and takes a step back. 

“Anything else Lieutenant?” Connor asks, head tilting a little again. 

Hank shakes his head. “No, but thank you for helping.”

Connor smiles, this time with both corners of his mouth. His intense gaze has softened with the smile too. “It’s my pleasure.”

That impassive tone is gone. 

It makes Hank uneasy. He can’t help but think if that’s the tone Connor uses with his customers. He gives Connor one last look before he heads back down the hall in the direction of the rest of the club. 

Connor doesn’t follow. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

Cursory looks over the scene of the crime didn't lead to much. There was some blood. Well,  _ lots  _ of blood. It was splattered across the floor and rim of the toilet in the middle stall in the bathroom. There were three stalls, the two on either side spotless. 

Well, not  _ spotless _ . It included DNA and certain… human samples... that weren't relevant to the case. 

But the victim had been found in the middle stall, sprawled on the floor with blood pooled around him and splattered across the rim of the toilet bowl. His legs were half-in another stall, and his arms raised above his head. 

It wasn't clear if the man had been knocked into the toilet before or after being strangled. That's what autopsies are for. 

But the weapon used in the strangulation was nowhere to be seen. Bruising didn't look like it was hands. Too thin of a line. Too even. 

Hank had distantly thought of it being that android's discarded tie. He had asked one of the crime scene jockeys to pack up the tie as evidence. 

Now, Hank sits at his desk, the following morning. Or really, early afternoon. He had gotten in late, and for once wasn't given a dirty look from Fowler. He had been working late after all. 

The file for last night's case sits open on his desk. Warrants were pending for the security footage at  _ Scarlett _ 's, and later in the day he would be going out to the victim's apartment. 

They were still just collecting evidence, but the evidence didn't add up.

_ Scarlett's _ definitely attracted the shady kind, but their android witness Connor stuck out-- too intelligent to be there. 

Hank had thought about Connor on the way to the station this morning. That (admittedly) beautiful android didn't belong on a place that sketchy. Didn't even belong at Eden Club; the guy was high end and stunning, built for greater things than sex work.

Maybe he should find Connor again, ask him about that. Disguise it as follow up questions. 

It could be relevant-- depending on the answer. 

But Hank shakes his head minutely, dispelling the thoughts. He shifts in his chair, sitting up a little straighter. He takes the case file in hand, eyes flicking over the photos tucked inside. The blood splatters are pretty nasty; whoever killed Jona Campbell must be strong. 

There's a few photos of the body. Hank had gotten there just after they had taken it to the morgue, so all he was left with was a chalk outline and some pictures.  The pictures revealed some nasty blood though. The dark liquid pooled in the grout between aging grey tile. Hank knew that shit would stain-- and he felt bad as he flipped the page. 

On the other side of the photos was Campbell’s rap sheet. Some of his personal information had already come through-- he’d been caught with petty shoplifting a few years back. Hank scanned the intake sheets, pausing at the guy’s photo.Campbell was a normal looking guy. Average clothes, a little worn. Wasn’t particularly handsome, but wasn’t ugly either. If Hank had saw him on the street, he wouldn’t have given the man a second look. 

The guy wasn't suspicious at all. One bedroom apartment a few blocks away from  _ Scarlett's _ , average income as an accountant. No close family; an only child. Besides the shoplifting charge there wasn't anything off about the guy. 

Hank hopes there's something in his apartment that'll lead to a motive. Otherwise, that’d make Hank’s job a hell of a lot harder. 

In the meantime, it's off to question Campbell's coworkers and see if anything was off at work. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

Connor pulls his coat closer to him. He doesn't need it really, unable to feel the cold, but it helps him relax on the way home from work. 

It's late enough into the night that the train is mostly empty, but an occasional traveler will come on-- swaying and smelling of alcohol. 

Connor doesn't like the fact that he lives on the opposite side of Detroit, meaning a long train ride with the shadier side of the city. 

Purposefully, he sits in the back corner of the train car, keeping an eye on everyone that enters. Even though androids are more widely accepted as their own beings now, he knows that becoming complacent will come back to him some day. 

He keeps his coat close, hands tucked in the pockets. Underneath, he's fully clothed, but he still feels bare from work. 

Tonight's incident has made him uneasy. 

Everything was unfolding just as normal. His customers would come in, asking for him and paying before he took them to the back. In between, he would play waiter, bussing tables and serving drinks. 

Then, Campbell had come in. It was nothing special or out of the ordinary, but then he…

He  _ died. _

Connor is haunted by it, even if he wasn't the one who found the body. 

Nervously, he scans the near empty train. The only other passenger is a middle aged woman. She's in her own world; headphones are over her ears and Connor's too far to hear what's playing. 

The train rattles as it speeds down the tracks. His eyes flick over to the window. The dark buildings whiz by, and he lets a small breath escape his lips. 

The club was closed tonight, and will be tomorrow. It's a shame… he really needs the money. 

The train slows. An android's voice announces the stop. The lady at the other end stands as the doors slide open. She steps off, leaving Connor alone. 

He allows his eyes to shut then. 

Ever since the revolution he's felt antsy in public. At the thought, his LED cycles blue. Nobody else is in the train car, but he can’t help feeling… scared.

Well, not scared necessarily. Just, anxious. Worried that something could happen to him. 

He could defend himself fairly well, but what if someone caught him by surprise? 

There's stories every day on the news about anti-android crimes. People are bitter that they lost their property.

It makes Connor feel sick to his artificial stomach. 

The train doors slide shut. 

Connor opens his eyes again. 

In the glossy window in front of him, he can see his reflection. His LED cycles again. 

Blinking slowly, he turns away. 

The train starts to move, Connor swaying in his seat as he scans the train car. 

Nobody got on at the last stop; it's just him. 

It always feels like just him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall know you can hit me up on [tumblr](http://geoffseightgreatestmistakes.tumblr.com) because i'm always willing to talk to you guys!!! <3<3
> 
>  
> 
> [ch warning: heavy talk of crime scenes, the deceased, and blood]


	3. working late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is on the slow side, but i have to lay the foundations for the plot at some point :D it is long so hopefully that tides yall over

The sound of the printer whirring in the corner of the office is getting on Hank’s nerves. He hits the keys on the console in front of him viciously, frustrated at filling out the paperwork that followed after looking through Jona Campbell’s apartment. 

The printer whirs again. Hank’s tempted to take a baseball bat to the thing. Fowler would fire him on the spot, but he’d do it. 

He’d get out of his paperwork after all. 

Instead, he pauses. His hands run over his face, lingering at his jawline to scrub at his untamed beard. He glances at the clock in the corner of the console; 4:14 PM.

Looking through Campbell’s apartment hadn’t brought up anything. Besides his weekly visits with an escort, there was nothing in the apartment indicating why he was murdered. The guy lived a ordinary life. 

Hank had the somewhat depressing realization that Campbell lived similar to the way he did-- working in the day, coming home to settle on the couch with a drink in hand and watch whatever was on. The guy’s movie collection had been quite remarkable; an extensive DVD collection filled two bookshelves up to the point that the shelves were sagging under the weight. Unless somebody was jealous of the hundreds of DVDs the guy had, there was no reason he should’ve been killed. 

Hank had been frustrated at this fact as he left the apartment complex a few hours previous. 

Now he sits at his desk, staring blearily at the console on his desk. The paperwork was open on the screen-- empty boxes were he needed to fill out his findings. He was tempted to type ‘ _ fuck all’  _ in, but he knew that wouldn’t fly. With a heavy sigh, he rests his fingers back on the keys. The second he’s settled, someone calls his name.

“Anderson.”

Hank looks up from his desk, eyes going to the direction of the voice It’s unfortunate that it’s coming from Fowler’s office. With a heavy sigh, he stands from his chair and walks towards Fowler’s office. He wonders of the captain can read his mind-- knowing that Hank wanted to skimp on his paperwork out of frustration. 

Hank’s stomach turns warily. 

As he passes Gavin’s desk, Gavin gives him an evil eye. Hank returns the look, lips turning downward in a scowl. 

He crosses the bullpen, taking the two steps up to Captain Fowler's office. He feels uneasy every time he goes in. The clear glass walls leave him open to the whole office. 

“What'd I do this time?” He asks, mostly joking, as he closes the door to the office behind him. Fowler doesn't respond with an equally joking tone. Instead, he gestures to the empty chair on the other side of his desk. 

“What didn't you do more like it,” Fowler responds gruffly. “You've got a lot of paperwork due Anderson.”

Hank hesitates to sit down. When he does, the chair creaks under his weight. 

“You've got a ton of open cases, and I know you have a lot going on, but this is getting ridiculous,” Fowler says. “So I want you to start closing cases. File your paperwork. I want this  _ done _ .”

“Is there a deadline…?” Hank asks.

“End of the week.”

It's Monday, sure, but if Hank had a drink in his hand he'd choke on it. 

“Who do you think I--”

“I don't care how you do it. Stay late, bring work home, I don't give a shit,” Fowler cuts him off. But Hank's not mad… going off on his Captain would only add another disciplinary mark to his record. 

Hank hangs his head, looking at his hands as they rest on the arm rests of the chair. Some ugly mix of anger and frustration is brewing in his chest. It feels thick in his lungs. It's hard to breathe. 

“If you don't I'm saddling you with Reed.”

Hank's head shoots up so fast he might get whiplash. 

“Excuse me--” 

The sludge is rising to his throat. 

“This is not up for discussion Hank,” Fowler's exasperated. He sighs, meeting Hank's eyes for the first time in this whole discussion. “If that's what it takes for you to do your damn job, then I'm going to do it.”

Hank knows he's in no position to argue. Plus… it would be nice to get the case file stack down... Maybe Fowler would get off his ass too. 

He sighs quietly, swallowing the thickness in his throat. His eyes go to the bullpen, watching his co-workers move around through the thick glass wall. Then he gets to Reed's desk, who's looking at his console with such strong bitterness and distaste.

“Fine, okay, whatever you want,” he finally says. His eyes go back to Fowler. 

Fowler nods. “Thank you Hank.”

The two share gazes for a few seconds, then Hank stands, knowing that this is the end of the conversation. 

Fowler lets him leave, not saying anything and turning his attention back to his console. 

Hank leaves the office, crossing the bullpen to get back to his desk. 

He sits down with a sigh, eyeing the stack of files with wariness. After a few seconds, he reaches for the stack. Instead of grabbing the top most file, he lifts the pile carefully and slides out the bottom one. Chances are, it's the oldest one and it's paperwork has sat neglected inside. 

He thumbs open the cover, and realizes just how fucked he is. Nothing is filled out, even if it's nearly solved. 

_ I'm in for a long week.  _

 

\-------------------------------

 

With the bullpen this quiet, Hank hears the ticking of the clock for the first time ever. It hands above Fowler's office door. It's been drowned out by noise almost constantly that Hank assumed the ticking mechanism had broken and the hands moved silently. 

He was wrong. 

The ticking is getting on his nerves but he can't go home yet. There's still work to do and he's  _ determined _ (for once). He refuses to bring work home with him. His home is meant for relaxing: watching TV, drinking some bottle, sitting with Sumo, and sleeping. 

Work can not and will not follow him home. There's a reason why getting called in during his time off is such an ordeal. 

So it sucks, completely and absolutely sucks, that he's still at the office. It's a little before ten, five hours after his work day ended. The night crew has come in, but most are out on cases. 

It's just him and the android secretary. She's sitting at her desk, typing away at her console and occasionally answering the phone when it rings. Her voice is soft, echoing through the empty lobby. 

Hank doesn't have the energy to glare at his console anymore. He was at the beginning of the night, but now he's just exhausted. His eyelids are dropping, fingers lazily hitting the keys as he fills out the boxes. 

_ Victim name and information  _ here… 

_ Incident description and location  _ there…

_ Evidence Against Suspect  _ in that box…

It was getting tedious but so far he's done all the paperwork for four cases. In the grand scheme of things, four cases is nothing, but right now it's a goddamn miracle. 

Half way through his overtime, he realized Fowler wasn’t all that specific. All he had said to Hank was ‘ _ get your paperwork done, close some cases’,  _ he didn’t say how many cases though… For a hot second, Hank had thought about being the petty ass bitch he was and just submitting one. But the small, rarely-seen logical section of his brain spoke up and told him that it’d be a bad idea. It appeared that logic had quickly won, since Hank was still sitting at his desk. 

A headache was forming behind his eyes, making it hard to focus. But this case was nearly filed-- just a few more ‘ _ click this box to accept the terms and conditions’  _ boxes and one line for an electronic signature. 

He reaches for a cup on his desk, blindly poking around the array of pens held inside. He finds the one that’s the stylus that goes with the console, and half-asses his signature. The signature is pixelated on the screen, and Hank is well aware it looks nothing like the actual thing. But he hits submit anyways, dropping the stylus back into the cup of pens with his other hand. 

The page refreshes. A small loading bar sits in the middle of the screen as it gets sent through the system. Hank watches the bar slowly fill, holding in a sigh of frustration and exhaustion. As he watches, he thinks about Sumo. He knows his poor dog is probably laying with his back pressed up against the floor, waiting to be fed and let out. Chances are too, there’s probably a puddle waiting on the kitchen floor for him. 

Hank runs a hand over his face again. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen are getting to him. As his hand falls away from his face, he sees the paperwork went through. Some bland confirmation message appears on screen, and Hank doesn’t even bother closing it before he reaches for the power button on the console. The screen goes black, and he says nothing as he stands up and pulls his coat off the back of his chair. 

The receptionist at the desk smiles at Hank as he passes her. She’s on call, LED yellow on her forehead. Hank halfasses a smile, barely looking at her as he walks through the lobby. 

The cold hits him hard when he steps outside. The bitter wind rolling up off one of the great lakes is bottlenecked into the gaps between the buildings of downtown Detroit. It quickens-- whipping at Hank’s coattails as he crosses the parking lot to his car. 

It’s bitter as shit and he rushes across the half-slush half-ice-salted parking lot. He throws open the car door, shoving the key into the ignition. It rolls over once before starting. Hank curses quietly, knowing the cold always messes up his old thing he calls a car. 

He throws it in reverse, pulling out of his parking space and finally driving home. It’s 10:39, five and a half hours after he should’ve been home. 

Sumo is gonna kill him. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

Fowler doesn’t even congratulate Hank on his overtime. Sure, he did the overtime to finish work he should’ve been able to finish during the day… but he still probably deserved a congratulations. A thank you. 

Even a simple  _ ‘you did good’  _ head nod would’ve sufficed. 

But Hank trudges in the following morning, on time for once. 

Fowler’s in his office, glaring at the console as usual. Doesn’t even realize his (allegedly) sharpest detective is doing his damn job. Hank knows that wanting praise for something he should always be doing is a little childish, but fuck it if it ain’t fun to be like that. 

He sits down at his desk, the chair creaking under his weight as he shrugs off his coat. Stray snowflakes fall off the shoulders of his coat, melting in the air before they even hit the tile floor. He throws his coat over the back of his chair, already exhausted. It sucks that he’s well aware that he’ll be pulling lots of late nights this week. 

He reaches across his desk, hitting the power button on the console. Within a second, the screen flickers on and the automatic ‘ _ Good morning Lieutenant Anderson’  _ message pops up. Underneath is a little thin loading bar, quickly loading as the console starts up. 

Hank watches the bar fill, letting the warmth of the station wash away the bitter mid-winter chill. 

The bar fills completely, the message vanishing and he’s greeted with the whatever he left open last night. 

And it’s the confirmation screen for his paperwork. It had gone through, fortunately, but it still made Hank mad. 

That meant he still had more paperwork to do. 

With a heavy sigh, he starts his day by reaching for the first case file on the stack of uncompleted ones. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

The week passes bitterly. 

It feels like every minute is an hour.

Hank is suffering under the overtime he pulls every night, but the threat of working with Reed keeps him going. 

Fowler seems to give him some help-- cases that come into the bullpen wind up on Reed’s desk (much to the detective’s dismay). Reed bitches about it of course, antagonizing Hank and saying to just give in and stop being such a bitch. 

Hank snaps back, saying he’ll pull double shifts for a month straight if that meant he’d never work with Reed again. 

Reed’s eyes had flared with something mischievous, but another officer had called the detective away before he could say anything. 

Besides Reed’s antics, Hank was left largely alone to his paperwork. He managed to whittle away at the stack every day, regretfully learning a lesson. If he  _ actually sat down and did his work,  _ he could achieve wonders. 

He hopes Fowler doesn’t tell him that when it hits Friday.

But Tuesday melts away to Wednesday, then to Thursday.

Sumo hates Hank getting home so late. The old Saint Bernard whines at the door as Hank’s key turns the tumblers in the lock. He insists on laying across Hank in bed to make up for the lost evening of sitting on the couch together. 

If it wasn’t crushing him, Hank would find Sumo’s new sleeping position somewhat endearing. It’s nice to know that somebody, even if it’s a dog, misses him. 

It’s been awhile since somebody missed him…

Thursday slips through Hank’s fingers, and suddenly he’s showing up to the station at nine in the morning on Friday. 

His ever-present circles under his eyes have deepened, and his usually unruly beard has grown longer. He didn’t bother brushing his hair, just pulling it back with a tie and throwing on whatever he pulled out of the closet. 

He walks to his desk, Gavin eyeing him from across the bullpen. 

Gavin’s eyes feel like the red dot of a sniper’s gun, watching his every move and waiting for the opportune moment to take the shot. 

“What do you want Gavin?” Hank grumbles, slipping his coat off his shoulders. 

Gavin’s leant back in his chair, as far back as the thing’ll go before it tips over backwards. His feet are kicked up on his desk, blatantly on top of an open case file. Hank holds back a cringe.

“Just watching you savor your last moments as a free man,” Gavin says from behind a shit-eating grin. 

“Say, if I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re asking me out,” Hank drawls, sitting in his desk chair. He throws a fake grin over his shoulder, somewhere in the direction of Gavin. Gavin sputters for a second, swinging his feet over his desk so he could sit upright. The contents of the file scatter across the desk, crinkling under the rushed movement. 

“You piece of--” Gavin starts. 

“Cool it, dumbass,” Hank cuts him off, laughing.

Five days straight of late nights. He’s not up for bullshit and he’s  _ definitely  _ not up for bickering with Reed. 

Gavin’s mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish out of water. After a few seconds of silent fumbling, he growls. It rumbles low in his throat, and his petty grin sours. With some sort of weird vindictive look, he turns to his console and starts tapping on the screen harshly. 

Hank watches for a second, wondering what crawled up Gavin’s ass and died. 

Sure, he always knew Gavin had a stick up his ass, but it seemed like the stick had widened to a fuckin’ tree trunk. 

He figures he’ll leave the detective be. He turns his attention to his console, going back to the main screen of the DPD’s online records. With a vaguely annoyed, bitter look, he opens up the barely-filled out paperwork of the next case. 

 

Sometime in the late afternoon, less than an hour before Hank’s shift ends, an email notification pops up in the corner of Hank’s console screen. 

He pauses, eyes weak from filling out the same set of boxes all day. 

> _ From: Captain Fowler _
> 
> _ Subject: Old Cases _
> 
> _ When you get a minute, come see me Anderson.  _
> 
> _ \- Fowler _

Hank wonders if it’s better or worse to receive an email rather than be yelled at. It scares him; what if this indicated he had seriously fucked up? Maybe he didn’t fill out the boxes right and everything he’s been working on this entire week is fucked up, or what if all this work was for nothing, or or or or  _ or or or  _

Hank’s mind is going a mile a minute. 

The notification disappears from his screen after a few seconds. 

He blinks. Then turns. Eyes land on the glass walls of Fowler’s office. 

The captain is at his desk, eyes focused on something on his console. He works as if nothing is wrong. 

Hank hopes nothing is wrong. 

Warily, he stands. He leaves the current case paperwork half-filled out. It would be better to have this conversation sooner rather than later. 

Dread fills his stomach as he turns away from his desk. The dread in his stomach sours under stomach acid, and for a second Hank thinks he’ll throw up. But he swallows bile down, and crosses the bullpen to Fowler’s office. 

 

Shockingly-- Fowler  _ for fuckin’ once  _ has nice things to say. 

He doesn’t shower Hank with compliments, he was never that kind of guy, but he tells Hank he’s done good work. Hank doesn’t need to keep pulling late nights, but if he showed up at a relatively decent time and did work, he’d give Hank some room.

Hank doesn’t know what to say exactly, so he just nods along as Fowler talks. 

“So I’m not working with Reed?” Hank asks, trying his best to keep his voice flat despite wanting to sound relieved or hopeful. He manages to do an okay job, but Fowler still chuckles. 

“Not unless it’s necessary.”

Hank lets out a relieved sigh, being a little over dramatic with it for the hell of it. Fowler  chuckles again. 

Distantly, Hank remembers that long ago, when they were both beat cops, they were closer. They were… friends. But then life happened. Red Ice came in. Fowler got married. Hank got married. 

That youthful energy they had decades ago was nice. Fresh out of the academy, they hadn’t been weathered down by the nastiness of the world, and most importantly, Detroit. 

The thought is melancholic. It sours Hank’s mood a little… but that seems to happen often. 

“I’ll give you the evening off,” Fowler says after a few seconds of silence after their quiet chuckles had faded. “You deserve it.”

Hank’s relief must play out on his face. Fowler’s raises an eyebrow though. 

“ _ However _ , I want you showin’ up here at 9:30 at the latest on Monday.”

Fuck, Hank’ll take that and run with it. 

“You got it boss,” he says, pushing himself up and out of the chair. “See ya Monday.”

A corner of Fowler’s mouth twitches, smiling for a second. 

“Have a good weekend Hank.”

“You too Jeffrey.”

It’s been a long time since Fowler’s called him ‘Hank’ without it being followed by a reprimand. Hank smiles a little. Jeffrey doesn’t return it, but he never was the type of guy who did. 

After two seconds, Hank turns and leaves. He shuts the door behind him, taking the two steps down and back into the bullpen. 

He feels a hell of a lot better leaving that office than he did going in. It’s been god knows how long since that happened. 

He doesn’t hesitate for a second-- he immediately goes over to his desk and starts shutting things down for the weekend. 

Halfway through the process, Reed looks over. His face is twisted up in some mix of confusion, jealousy, and frustration. 

“Did ya get fired?” He asks. 

Hank snorts roughly. “Got the night off.”

Gavin’s jealousy deepens. It sinks into the creases in his face-- age lines already forming despite his age. He’s just such a bitter bitch that of course anger would age him faster than time. 

Gavin doesn’t say anything. He turns back to his console bitterly, mumbling something under his breath. Hank assumes it’s something about wanting the night off as well, but he doesn’t care enough to continue the conversation. 

He slides his arms into his coat, letting Reed stew in his usual anger as he heads home for the weekend. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

If androids could get headaches, Connor knew one would be forming under his eyebrows. It would be from tension-- of being overworked and forced into situations where he can’t do anything. 

He sits in some john’s lap, mechanical back pressed up against the stranger’s grimy chest. The john laughs, something full-belly as the people he’s with make jokes. Connor isn’t listening. It’s not his place to listen. He’s supposed to sit there and look pretty; a lap warmer for someone he’d never be with if it weren’t for money. 

The john’s beer gut presses against the small of his back. Connor’s mind is blank. No emotion or feeling or thought. Purposeful distance from the situation. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism.

He runs a hand down the side of the john’s thigh, feigning sexual interest as the man chatters with the people around him. 

The heavy music of the club masks half his words, even with Connor’s advanced hearing. Connor’s optical components whir for a second, unfocusing as his mind goes somewhere else. It lands on nothing in particular, just filtering through random thoughts. 

He imagines that this is what dreaming is like. He’s thought about dreams fairly often-- fascinated with the idea of human brains flushing stray, subconscious thoughts as they rest. As far as he knows, his system stays still as he’s in stasis. But he imagines that he’s dreaming, his components flushing the stray thoughts that have lingered all day. 

His eye components whir again, a notification appearing on his HUD. 

> _ Time Left: _
> 
> _ 00:01:00 _

He blinks, his components focusing on the world around him again. The john he’s sitting on is unaware that his time with Connor is nearly up. Connor says nothing though, still trailing a hand up and down the man’s thigh. 

He lets the notification settle in the corner of his vision, the blue-bordered box counting down to zero. When it reaches zero seconds, he shifts. He lifts his hand from the john’s leg, and prepares to stand. 

The john’s smile sours in a second, hand coming forward to grasp Connor’s arm. Connor pulls his arm back without hesitation.

“Time’s up,” he says, voice impassive.

The man’s ready to snap back, but Connor stands before he can say anything else. The john growls, reaching after Connor. 

“I’ll pay some more,” he says. Connor pauses, turning to face the man. 

He sits in a booth towards the back of the club, an arm laid across the back of it. The other reaches for Connor. He’s got legs spread open, drawing attention to his tight dark denim pants and certain human appendages. On either side of him is a few people, all his friends. They’re all equally sketchy. Connor doesn’t want him to pay more. 

“My shift ends--” Connor starts.

One of the john’s friends rudely cuts him off, leaning forward and resting his hand palm up on the table. He unfurls his fingers, revealing a plastic baggie of small red crystals. 

“Relax man,” the guy says, voice slurring a little. “We don’t need a fuckin’ android here.”

Connor would pull a face at that, but he swallows his emotions to remain impassive. 

The john’s arm drops, eyeing the baggie with some look of hunger. 

Connor knows that look, and he feels sick for a second. He knows that look is often directed at him. 

The john glances back up at him, look of hunger transforming into something angry. 

“Get the fuck outta here tin can!” He barks, as if androids still follow orders without hesitation. 

But it’s not like Connor wants to stick around anyway-- without a word he turns and leaves the group alone at their booth. 

He weaves between the tables, eyes locked on the curtains that lead to the back area. He crosses the club quickly, pushing the curtains aside and slipping into the hallway behind it. He’s quick to pass through the hall, not into hearing whatever muffled noises are coming from behind the doors. He reaches the door on the end, pushing it open and stepping into the employee’s backroom. 

He’s thankful as hell that his shift is over, he wants to go the hell home. 

 

Connor’s boots tap against the stairs as he walks from the train station down to the street. Slush squishes under the treads, snow and ice half-melted from people walking up and down the stairs all day. 

But Connor walks down the steps to the street below the station alone. It’s late enough that there’s only a handful of people walking on the sidewalk and even fewer cars on the street. Connor quickly scans the area as he reaches the street, pausing for a second to see what’s around before he crosses the street. As he scans, he tugs on the strap of his backpack. One strap is slung over his shoulder casually, but Connor’s fingers clutch on the strap as if it were a lifeline. 

The streetlights don’t do much, and Connor bumps his vision brightness up a level before he starts to walk in the direction of home. His apartment complex is just a few blocks away from the station, so it shouldn’t take less than ten minutes to get home. He stays vigilant, knowing that even if the walk is short, a lot can happen in the ten minutes it takes to get home. 

Connor pulls his beanie down, not wanting it to ride up too much. He doesn’t need the beanie, but it’s one of those simple things he’s started to enjoy. A beanie to keep him warm as he walks home. A backpack to keep his stuff in. A few house plants in his apartment for him to take care of. Lounge pants to wear at home. 

He pauses at an intersection, glancing up at the light. A car passes him, kicking up some slush. Connor steps back almost on instinct, avoiding it as it lands just a few inches in front of his shoes. As the car passes, he scans the street. 

Nobody else is on the sidewalk, or in the street. He crosses the street quickly, able to see his apartment building rise above some rundown brownstones. 

As he passes a small cafe that’s closed for the night, something hits the pavement behind him. Connor’s quick pace slows. He glances over his shoulder, already running his scanning program. 

But something knocks into him-- hitting him square in the back. His scanner program is interrupted, a failure message popping up on his HUD as he stumbles. 

Something hits him in the back again, shoving him harder and he stumbles forward again. The message is blocking his vision. He trips. His bag slips off his shoulder. The thing pressing against his back steers him into an alleyway in between the closed cafe and some other building. 

Connor falls to the ground. A warning message pops in front of his vision as his knees knock into the concrete roughly. Letting out a startled noise, he turns to see whatever, or whoever, is shoving him. 

As he turns, a hand latches onto his arm and pushes him down onto the dirty concrete ground. Mud soils his pants. Slush seeps into his shoes. 

With fear in wide eyes, he looks up to see a figure silhouetted in the moonlight looming above him.

 


	4. tell me about last night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhh i should've posted this a week and a half ago. i had this chapter written forever and a day ago, i just didn't want to edit. but it's here now, and this is where shit gets interesting ;)
> 
> and in this chapter my need to write dialogue all the time gets really intense. whoopsie,
> 
> (there are some tw warnings in this, so please check the end tags for them!!)

Ringing startles Hank awake. Something in his room is ringing. Something in his room is rattling. 

His eyes open, blurry with sleep. Blinking slowly, he rolls over to see what time it is. 

Just after two in the morning…  _ what the fuck _ ? 

Then it hits him that it’s his phone beeping. He hardly looks as he reaches for the nightstand, feeling around with his fingertips until he touches it. At his touch, the screen lights up. It’s blinding, and he has to squint to make out who’s calling him. 

> _ Officer Gonzalez is calling…  _

Gonzalez is one of the newer officers; been with the DPD for just under a year. He’s good, Hank thinks he’s an alright guy. But they’re nowhere near close enough for Gonzalez to be calling him in the middle of the night. 

But he answers away. What the hell, he’s already awake. 

He hits the answer button, bringing the phone to his ear as he rolls onto his back. 

“Gonzalez what do you want?” Hank grumbles. “It’s two in the goddamn morning.”

He decides to not also mention the fact that this is his first night off all week. Doesn’t need to guilt trip Gonzalez that hard. 

“I know, I know,” Gonzalez says, voice tinny though the phone. But Hank can still hear the apologetic tone to his words. “I’m sorry for waking you Anderson but something came up.”

_ Something came up.  _ God, Hank hates that phrase more and more as each day passes. 

“A call came in. Somebody witnessed an assault and mugging and called it in, so I went to pick whoever it was up… but it’s this android... and he’s asking for you. I think he’ll only talk if you’re there.”

Hank doesn’t say anything for five seconds. Who in the fuck could be asking for--

It’s Connor. 

That android from Scarlett’s. 

“What do you want me to do?” Gonzalez asks after Hank’s lack of response. 

“What’s his name?” Hank asks, just to be sure. He runs a hand down his face. Over the phone, Hank hears distant talking. It’s too far to make out the words. 

“Connor Stern,” Gonzalez says, voice clearer now. 

Hank holds in a groan. “Bring him to Central Station. I’ll be there in 30.”

Gonzalez says some kind of confirmation, but Hank isn’t paying attention. He’s finding the motivation to get out of bed. 

_ There goes his one normal night.  _

 

\-------------------------------

 

The lights are still on at Central when Hank pulls into the parking lot at a quarter to three. He gets out of his car, barely scanning the lot. Nearly empty, so it must just be the graveyard crew. He’s been at the station this late a few times before, when shit gets called in, but it’s been awhile since that’s happened.

He trudges up the front steps to the station, avoiding small piles slushy brown snow. At the top, he pushes open the glass door and steps into the lobby of the station. It’s quieter than it is in the day; this is probably the quietest Hank’s ever heard it. Just the sound of the AC whirring and the distant wet sounds of a janitor mopping down the floor. 

Hank holds in a sigh, keeping his lips pressed in a flat line as he crosses the lobby and into the bullpen. In the open room, he can see Gonzalez leaning up against a desk, and a familiar android sitting in a chair on the side of Hank’s desk. 

At the sound of footsteps, both look up at Hank. Hank nods his head in silent greeting. Gonzalez returns the nod. 

“You can head back out Gonzalez, I can take it from here.” Hank says, passing the officer as he gets to his desk. 

“Are you sure?” Gonzalez asks, a little hesitant to move. 

Hank waves his hand distractedly as he sits down in his desk chair. “Yeah, I got this.”

Gonzalez’s eyes flick between Connor, then Hank. After a second, he nods and bids them farewell. Then he leaves, and it’s just the android and the lieutenant in the bullpen. 

Connor shifts in the chair, making it squeak. Hank’s eyes flick over, and he’s startled by what he sees. 

Connor is a mess. 

His hair is mussed, locks falling over his forehead. His black peacoat is unbuttoned, underneath a half-torn open grey button down. There’s mud splattered over his pants and shoes. The android’s eyes are red and glossy, cheeks a polar opposite. They’re flushed blue from the thirium in his artificial veins. On top of it all, there are drying tear tracks over his cheeks.

Hank blinks slowly. This looks nothing like the android he met at that club. That android was collected, emotionless, stoic. This? This Connor is shaking in the seat, hunched in on himself as if he was going to be attacked any second. 

Any semblance of confidence Connor had at the club had vanished into thin air. 

Connor meets his eye, shoulders near vibrating. 

“Why did you ask for me?” Hank asks, unsure of where to begin this conversation. 

“I know you,” Connor responds, as if it’s a stupid question. As if he’s not on the verge of tears. “I didn’t think I would be seeing you this soon though.”

It’s a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but Hank doesn’t find it amusing. 

He doesn’t scowl at Connor, just gives him an unimpressed look. Connor looks away awkwardly.

“Okay…” Hank trails off. He sits up, setting his hands on his desk. Connor sits on the other side, fingers clenched tightly together in his lap. His brown eyes are wet. The beginnings of tears. 

“How about we walk through what happened?” 

Connor hesitates. Hank can see it. He was reaching for the recorder on his desk, but his hand pauses when Connor does. 

Connor’s back goes rigid, shoulders locking, and LED cycling yellow. Hank doesn’t say anything though, or even move. He just watches as Connor mulls over something internally. 

Then, the android’s lips part. The LED on his temple is back to cycling blue. 

“I was on my way home from work,” Connor starts. 

Hank’s hand moves again, grabbing the voice recorder and sitting the little silver machine in front of them. He hits a button, and eyes flick back up to Connor. 

“I take the train, and I got off at Ferndale to get to my apartment,” Connor continues.

Hank knows Ferndale  _ well _ . It’s not the best neighborhood; a lot of cases come out of that area. He presses his lips in a flat line, watching Connor’s chest heave as he tries to stay calm. Hank’s almost tempted to offer a hand for him to hold, but he knows that’ll be too much.

“I was on Forsyth St. when I heard something behind me. I turned to see who it was, but they knocked something into my back--” Connor’s chest heaves. His LED cycles yellow. “They knocked my bag off, and shoved me into an alleyway. I fell down.”

Connor pauses again, taking another breath. His chest rises and falls as he breathes. Hank knows the android doesn’t need the air, but he figures it’s to keep himself calm. It might not be working though. 

Connor’s hands are twisting in his lap, clenched around the bottom of his coat as if it was a life preserver in the middle of the relentless ocean. Hank swallows thickly. Connor looks two seconds away from ripping his coat to pieces. Hank doesn’t have a clue at how strong the android is, but god, he thinks he hears the fabric starting to rip. 

“Whoever it was pushed me up against a building after I hit the ground. I don’t know where my bag went but I didn’t have it anymore,” Connor’s voice gets weak for a few seconds, and he sniffles. 

It finally clicks for Hank. 

Connor is deviant.

That really should be a  _ no fuckin’ shit Sherlock  _ moment. Nearly every android is deviant now. ‘Deviant’ isn’t even the correct term to use anymore… But Hank’s slow-- okay? It’s not only three in the morning, but it’s  _ Hank _ . Age and alcohol have dulled the edge he used to have. 

To be fair though, he assumed that Connor would’ve left Scarlett’s once he deviated. He’s thought about this over and over again but it keeps plaguing him. Connor does not belong there. 

Connor sniffles again, eyes getting redder. Hank pushes a box of tissues closer to the edge of his desk. 

Connor glances at it, fingers tightening (if it’s possible) their grip on his coat without realizing. Then his eyes are back down on the floor, as if Hank hadn’t silently offered the tissues to him at all. 

“What did they do?” Hank says prompting. 

“They pushed me up against a building… They ripped open my coat and my shirt--” Connor chokes up. His shoulders bow inward, drawing his arms closer together. He’s closing off. 

“It’s okay,” Hank leans forward in his chair. It creaks and he sets his hands on the desk. “Did they do anything else to you?”

Connor shakes his head. “No. Somebody saw us before they could.”

Hank nods minutely. “Did you get a look at who attacked you?”

“I couldn’t identify who it was,” Connor says, disappointment seeping into his words. “It was dark and they had their back to the streetlight.”

Hank’s eyebrows furrow together for a second at Connor’s mention of ‘identifying’. It doesn’t necessarily surprise Hank that Connor has the capability of identifying faces… but it still kind does. 

“That’s okay,” he assures Connor. Now’s not the time to divulge in Connor’s capabilities. “There’s CCTV cameras everywhere, we can track this guy down.”

Connor’s shoulders loosen a bit in relief. He looks up from the floor, meeting Hank’s gaze. His brown, almost puppy dog eyes are still glossy with tears. 

“Your bag.” Hank remembers Connor mentioning that his bag went missing. He figures that’d be an easy enough question, letting Connor calm for a second before he moves on. 

“You mentioned your bag. What was inside?” Hank asks. 

Connor sniffles again. There’s still blue on his cheeks. The color intensifies as one lone tear rolls down the android’s cheek. 

Hank thought that would be an easy question, but it elicited a response he didn’t see coming. Sure, he’s used to victims tearing up during questionings, but an android crying? He didn’t think Cyberlife would put in that function. But hey, you learn new things everyday, even when you’re an aging, drunken man. 

A weak noise leaves Connor, and the android shakily reaches forward to grab a tissue. 

“Not much,” he says. His voice is soft, wavering just a little like something is wrong with his vocal processor. Connor sniffles again, then laughs weakly. 

“I’m sorry for crying Lieutenant. I don’t normally--”

“Don’t apologize,” Hank cuts in, voice firm yet gentle. Connor wipes away the tears with the tissue, looking anywhere but Hank. “You were attacked, it’s okay to be emotional.”

He’s told that to god knows how many victims, but telling that to an android, let alone  _ Connor _ , feels different. He can’t pin what the difference is though… unfortunately. 

Connor nods a little, sniffling again before continuing. 

“In my bag, I had some clothes. Just stuff for work…” Connor says. “But I also had my rent money…”

Hank doesn’t say anything. He watches Connor’s LED cycle blue. The android huffs out another laugh. It’s muffled from the tissue. 

“It was most of it, and it’s due Sunday.” Connor’s shoulders start to shake again. A small sob leaves his lips.

Hank’s stomach tightens. Without really thinking, he offers a hand to Connor. 

Connor looks at it for a few seconds, then reaches one shaky hand forward to take Hank’s. 

Their fingers don’t intertwine like lovers’ would. Their palms just rest together, fingers resting on each other’s wrists. 

It’s a simple touch, but Connor seems comforted. His LED’s near constant cycling slows. The mechanic tightness to his shoulders lessens. 

“I’ll look into working something out with your landlord,” Hank says. “Most likely we can reimburse you.” 

Hank pauses, realizing something uncomfortable. 

“I’ll try my best, but I hate to say that I don’t know the laws about stolen android property.”

Connor’s eyebrows pinch in for a second. “Wouldn’t it be the same law that it is for humans?”

“One would think, but this country’s run by morons.” Hank deadpans. 

Connor laughs, albeit weakly, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. A corner of Hank’s lips quirk upwards. Despite tears still rolling down Connor’s cheeks, he seems to be calming down. 

“Now, are you okay enough to keep talking?” Hank asks carefully. They have to continue sometime, but he’d feel awful for pushing Connor to talk when he wasn’t ready too. But Connor nods, wiping away a few more tears. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” His voice is still soft and on the weak side, but the solid blue of his LED assures Hank. 

“So did they say anything to you? The guy who attacked you?” Hank asks. 

It’s a heavy question, Hank knows. 

Across the table, Connor locks up completely. 

 

\-------------------------------

 

The blue box in the corner of his vision turns red. 

> _ Stress Level at 81% _
> 
> _ Thirium Regulator temperatures rising. Cooldown Program Initiating.  _

The sudden spike temporarily halts Connor’s functions. 

His processors are running at a mile a minute, pulled in a million directions as they rack through their endless archives to find some semblance of composure-- 

Hank is sitting on the other side of the desk, patiently waiting. He’s been patient this whole time, even as Connor’s CPU struggles. The number in the corner of his HUD is wavering, flickering between  _ 80 81 82.  _

He had been trying his best to stay in the moment but the question throws him back to last night. 

  
  


He looked up at the figure looming above him. The figure was masculine, shrouded in dark clothing. Face was covered with some kind of mask.

Connor tries to stand, but the figure shoves him back against the brick wall. Mud and slush goes flying, getting on both of them. 

“I can call the police--” He threatens. Despite all of his knowledge, he knows it’s a weak threat. But his stress levels are skyrocketing. Whatever part of his processing power that controls coherent thought has lost power as his functions shift to keeping his body cool. 

“Don’t fuckin’ do it,” the figure hisses. “If you know what’s good for you. Don’t contact the fuckin’ cops.”

The figure crosses the small alleyway to stand above Connor. A foot is placed on either side of Connor’s sprawled out legs. The figure then crouches, effectively trapping Connor. 

Connor can  _ feel  _ his LED cycling red. Like the angry red is hot fire filling up his mechanical lungs--

Grimy fingers grab Connor’s chin, yanking the android’s head up. The back of Connor’s artificial skull knocks into the brick wall roughly, a warning popping up in the corner of his HUD. Just below is the box monitoring his stress levels. 

> _ Stress Level at 85% _
> 
> _ Remove Stressors or Risk Shutdown _

Connor tries wrestling out of the figure’s grasp, but the man has a tight grip on his jawline. His thirium pump is working overtime in his chest. His legs twitch, wires underneath silicone skin lighting up. 

“Cyberlife sure made you pretty…” The figure’s voice is low. 

> _ Stress Level at 88% _
> 
> _ Remove Stressors or Shutdown Imminent _

  
  


Connor swallows, even if he doesn’t need to. 

Hank is sitting opposite him, still waiting for an answer. The lieutenant’s face is calm and understanding, with eyebrows pinched in ever-so-slightly out of concern for Connor’s drawn out silence. 

“They… They told me not to call the police,” Connor says, finally.

He doesn’t know how long he was in his own mind. However long it was, Hank had been patient with him. He feels awful, not wanting to do this to the lieutenant… 

At his words, Hank raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t say a thing. Just the simple facial movement. Connor looks away, eyes landing on their still connected hands. 

He’s aware he can’t feel touch like a human would… but it feels nice. Grounding. 

“Then they… they said I was pretty.”

Hank’s face does something weird. It’s fairly neutral, but something dark and bothered flickers across it. When it returns to something impassive, Connor wants to start crying again. 

  
  


The hold on his jaw is still rough. His head is held between the figure’s hand and the wall. He can’t move, watching with wide eyes as the figure’s other hand comes up to caress his cheek. 

Distantly, Connor wonders if an android can throw up. 

Something is souring in his chest. 

“I was told you were one of a kind…” the figure trails off. 

His fingers are gross, trailing across Connor’s synthetic skin. They trail over his cheeks, following the curve of manufactured cheekbone. 

“I should take you just for myself.” 

> _ Stress Level at 93% _
> 
> _ Shutdown Imminent. Thirium pump failing.  _

Connor barely processes his actions. His legs jerk again, knocking the figure back. The stranger lands on his ass. Directly in a puddle. Muddy snow goes flying. He spouts off curses. They echo through the alleyway. Connor hands grapple for the bricks, trying to get some kind of leverage to stand. The figure stops him, diving forward and shoving the android back against the wall. 

> _ Stress Level 96% _
> 
> _ Shutdown Imminent _

  
  


“They wanted to take me.”

Hank’s impassiveness falters. His face flickers again. 

_ “Fuck _ ,” Hank lets the quiet curse slip out. He shifts, fingers tightening around Connor’s hand. Connor watches the motion. Rough fingers brush against his wrist, and Connor feels a dizzying mix of peace and war in his mind. 

Emotions are still new to him-- he doesn’t understand what this is--

“They touched my face. I tried kicking them away but they pushed me back--” The sourness in his chest returns as he retells this all to Hank. “It felt awful.”

Hank’s grip gets tighter. 

  
  


Hands curl around the lapels of his coat. Using the coat as leverage, the figure keeps Connor backed against the brick wall. 

“Stay fuckin’ still!” The figure demands. “I’ll fuck you up if you don’t stop moving!”

Connor doesn’t follow orders anymore. He’s deviant. He doesn’t follow orders. He  _ won’t  _ follow orders--

He jerks his legs again. 

The figure drops his weight on Connor’s legs. It cages him in.

> _ Stress Level at 97% _
> 
> _ Shutdown Protocols Initiating _

The warning fills his vision. The blaring red box blocks out everything--

Connor doesn’t feel the hands pull open the first few buttons of his shirt 

Alarms are going off in his head 

Eye components are f̴a̵i̶l̷i̵n̵g̵ 

Audio b̶e̶g̵i̸n̸s̴ to fade

Touch s̸e̴n̵s̵o̷r̶s̷ ̴are going n̸̹̈́u̴̡͗m̶̖͋b̸͘͜ ̷̹͋

Hands are ả̴͖g̶̟͝a̷̗͊i̶̛̮n̶͖̓s̴͇̈́ṯ̶̌his chest 

S̴̭͋t̶̖̉ì̷̞c̸̥̽k̴̹̽y̵̮̎ ̷͓̇a̸͙̔n̷̹͝d̶̮̉ ̴͎͐ġ̸̥r̸̨̽i̸̛̙m̷̳͐y̸̨͌

Vocal processor c̶͚̦̀r̴̨̪̿ą̶͔̈́c̶͙̿k̵̭͂͗l̵͔̲͐e̵̦̬̋̐s̷͖̩͂ in his throat

> _ Stress Level at 9̶̢͉̟̄̈́͝ͅ9̸͖͇͕̈̈́̋͗%̷͕̞̱͙͒͐͗ _
> 
> _ Shutting Down in 00:00:15 _

  
  


“I don’t know what happened.” The words rip from Connor’s throat in an ugly sob. “He threatened me and I started shutting down from stress. I couldn’t hear or see or touch-- I just felt them on me. They had their hands under my shirt-- but I couldn’t  _ feel  _ anything...”

The words spill from his lips like an uncontrollable river. The flow is untamed. Only stopping when the water runs dry. 

“Next thing I knew, I was waking up to the police,” Connor is running out. “I think somebody saw, or heard… Whoever attacked me was gone. I was alone… and now I’m here. I didn’t see who called the police… they were just there all of the sudden.”

Connor’s had his eyes locked on their hands the whole time. He finally looks up at Hank. 

And Hank is a mess. His face is crumpled up in pain. It looks like this all happened to him, not Connor. 

Human sympathy is an incredible thing. 

Silence falls for a long minute. 

The two hold eye contact the whole time. Hank is holding Connor’s hand. Connor squeezes back. 

“Do you have anything else you want to share with me?” Hank’s voice is soft. Sincere. Caring. 

Connor slowly shakes his head.

Hank’s pained look melts. He smiles a little, reaching for the recorder. 

Connor’s thirium pump stutters in his chest. He had forgotten the recorder was there. He had forgotten why he was here-- at the police station. He had forgotten that this was a  _ confession _ . 

At a loss for words, he watches Hank turn the recorder off. The action requires two hands, so he reluctantly pulls his hand away. Connor allows it, letting his hand slip back into his lap. 

“How are you getting home?” Hank asks. 

Now that it’s not some formal police questioning script, his voice is gentle. There’s no more formal questions that need to be asked. Everything Hank will now say comes from sincerity.  

“I don’t know,” Connor says. 

“Is it okay if I drive you home?” Hank asks. “I bet you’re not comfortable with walking home.”

Connor’s head stutters as he nods. 

“Good, I don’t know if  _ I’m  _ comfortable with you walking home.” Hank admits. He looks away, eyes landing on the console on his desk. 

If Connor were in better shape, he’d analyze the look. He’d say Hank was bashful. But his systems are fried-- needing to be put in stasis so they can repair themselves. 

“Give me a minute and we can head out,” Hank says. 

“Okay.” Connor nods. He keeps his hands tucked in his lap. Legs resting under the chair. Shoulders pulled in close. Purposefully keeping himself small. 

Hank shuffles a few things around his desk, looking for something hidden under the mess. Connor’s eyes track his hands for a few seconds. But when they finally still, his eyes wander. 

Without turning his head, he takes in what he can of the police station. In the middle of the night, it’s not exciting to look at. The desks are empty, except for Hank’s. All of the screens are off. The lights are low. 

Distantly, Connor wonders what it’s like during the day, when it’s busy and bustling with people. 

A minute passes, and Hank stands. He’s done whatever he needed to, and is pulling his coat on. 

Connor stands too. He tucks the chair in from the desk it came from, and stands patiently for Hank. 

Hank steps around the side of the desk, meeting Connor’s eye. 

“Ready to go?” He asks, even if the answer is obvious. 

“Yes.”

 

\-------------------------------

 

The radio in Hank’s car is turned down low. Just barely white noise. The rumble of the tires rolling over dips in the road is louder. 

The two sit without speaking. 

Hank’s eyes are trained on the road. But he’s stealing glances at Connor when they’re stopped at red lights. 

Connor’s eyes are out the windshield. Eye components are fully functioning, just unfocused. The sharp lines of the buildings are muddled as they fly through the window.

Quietly, the car’s GPS interrupts the silence. 

Connor had tapped in his address when they first got in; the voice interrupts every so often to give Hank an instruction. The drive isn’t too complicated. Connor’s apartment building is a fifteen minute drive from the station. 

And fifteen minutes is not a lot of time. It slips by quickly. Hank’s stomach is a mess as he tries to get up the courage to ask Connor the question that’s been poking at him. 

_ Why are you at Scarlett’s?  _

He glances at Connor again. 

Connor’s LED is a steady blue, unwavering. Hank doesn’t know enough about androids to tell if the color changes are about Connor’s mood or processors. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. 

His eyes go back to the road. Nobody’s out this late, so it’s just them as they roll down the streets of midtown Detroit.

Hank swallows. Another glance at the GPS tells him he’s got two minutes until they arrive at Connor’s apartment building.

His eyes flick back to Connor. They pass under a streetlight. Connor’s face is illuminated for a second, soft blue-white light making him look paler than usual. And just as quick as it appeared, the light is gone. Connor’s shrouded in shadow once more.

Another glance at the GPS on the dash tells him it’s down to one minute. 

“Can… Can I ask you something?” Hank says awkwardly.  _ Now or never.  _

Connor blinks, eyes finally moving away from the windshield. 

“Yes,” he says. “What is it?”

Hank swallows again. Anxiety creeps up his throat like some kind of monster curling their fingers around his throat and squeezing. 

“Why are you at Scarlett’s? Um-- working there, I mean...” 

He avoids looking at Connor as he stutters through his question. He keeps his eyes on the road, hardly paying attention for the turn to Connor’s street. 

And in the reflection off the windshield, he sees Connor’s LED cycle yellow. 

“Why does it bother you?” Connor answers with a question. 

Hank wants his anxiety beast to tighten around his throat. Why in the fuck did he think this was a good idea to bring up?

“I don’t know,” he admits, after a few long seconds. “You… You don’t look happy.”

Connor’s LED cycles again, flickering yellow so fast Hank nearly misses it. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Connor’s voice is tight, tense. There’s something hidden there, and Hank nearly pushes. He wants to push. He wants to know Connor--  _ help  _ Connor. 

Fuck, they barely know each other. Just met last week. 

But watching Connor be vulnerable on the other side of his desk not even twenty minutes ago has fucked him up. 

Android be damned, Connor looked--  _ felt-- _ so  _ human.  _

“It does,” Hank says. Distantly, the GPS tells him to take the next right. He does, but barely pays attention as he yanks the wheel to the right. They take the turn wide. “You aren’t a machine anymore. You’re allowed happiness.”

Connor doesn’t say anything. 

Hank doesn’t either.

The car slows to a stop in front of the apartment building. The GPS happily chimes  _ ‘you’ve arrived at your destination’.  _ The cheery robotic words land uncomfortably in the atmosphere of the car. Like dropping a rock into water, it sinks heavily to the bottom.

“Just because androids have the freedom to live doesn’t mean that they are free.” 

Connor drops the words like a bomb. Fuck the rock in water-- he’s dropped an atomic bomb. It destroys everything, leaving nothing but ash and dust in its wake. 

Hank’s speechless. He looks at Connor, eyes wide and lips parted. 

What in the ever loving  _ fuck--  _ what did Connor mean? Hank’s brain scatters in a million directions, leaving behind emptiness. Any words he could say are stuck in his throat, leaving him staring at Connor as his brain tries to catch up with what’s happening.

In the passenger seat, Connor resolutely keeps his gaze on the windshield. His face flickers, a series of microexpressions playing out. A human reaction across a synthetic face. It lasts for a second, then Connor’s reaching for the door. He pulls the handle, rusted hinge squeaking. 

Dazed, Hank watches Connor step out. 

“Wait!” Hank’s throat convulses. The word’s forced out sharply. His brain’s catching up  _ finally.  _

Connor pauses. His hand rests on the top of the door, a second from closing it. He bends down a bit, meeting Hank’s eyes. 

“Let me give you my number,” Hank knows it sounds like he’s making a pass, but that’s not why-- “Just in case you need it.”

A smile slowly pulls at the corners of Connor’s mouth. “Okay Lieutenant Anderson.” 

Hank stutters, scrambling to find some scrap piece of paper to write on. He’s got receipts shoved in the cupholder, and he grabs whichever one is on top. He smooths it out on his thigh, grabbing a pencil that’s been in his glove compartment for forever. 

He scribbles down ten digits. He’s well aware his handwriting is a mess but he doesn’t give a shit. When he’s done, he holds out the crinkled receipt to Connor. 

Connor’s smile brightens, and he reaches across the empty passenger seat to take the slip. 

“Goodnight Lieutenant.”

“Goodnight Connor.”

Hank smiles too. 

The two hold eye contact for a few seconds, then Connor stands up. His face disappears from Hank’s sight. He can only watch Connor’s torso-- watching as the android closes the car door and turns away. 

He watches Connor’s back, waiting until he’s safely inside the apartment building before he pulls away from the curb. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: attempted sexual assault, graphic violence
> 
> and um... i had a ton of fun with this chapter. (also hit me up on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/Bailey8GM), i'm on there pretty regularly talking about hankcon!!)

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up on my [writing tumblr](http://geoffseightgreatestmistakes.tumblr.com/) or even my [personal tumblr](http://bleepbloopbee.tumblr.com/) if ya'll wanna talk about detroit or hankcon!!!<3<3
> 
> fic title comes from 'feels good to be high' by walk the moon.


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